


An Interrupted Vigil

by Moontyger



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1893018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/pseuds/Moontyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the night before the Battle of Denerim and Alistair can't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Interrupted Vigil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diabla616](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabla616/gifts).



“You know, I had always heard it was customary to sleep before a battle.”

Alistair jumped at the sound of Zevran's voice. He'd been certain he was alone. Everyone else had gone to bed, or at least their rooms, and he had neither expected that to change nor, apparently, noticed when it had. When had Zevran come in and how had he gotten so close? Oh, right, sneaky types – he should expect that kind of thing by now. 

Zevran did nothing more threatening than drop into the neighboring chair and smirk, but he still felt an itch between his shoulder blades that he didn't care for. That itch accounted at least as much as the greeting for the bite in his reply. “I don't see you sleeping either.”

Zevran shrugged, a gesture he performed with such ease that Alistair was suddenly acutely aware of his own tension. _His_ shoulders felt like they were hunched somewhere around his ears, the muscles knotted far too tightly to easily copy Zevran's shrug, and he didn't see that changing either - at least, not until the battle (and with it, the Blight) was over.

“Mine is not the profession of an early riser. I am not used to these early nights,” he paused here to leer pointedly, inviting implications that his words only vaguely suggested, “or even earlier mornings.”

Alistair just sighed. Under other circumstances, he might have been flustered, but right now, his mind was too full of worries about the battle to come to allow much room for Zevran's usual games. “Aren't you worried at all?”

“Should I be? If I worry about it, will our victory be assured?”

“... No,” Alistair admitted reluctantly. He cringed a little inwardly at how whiny that single word sounded. He wasn't a child! Tomorrow, they had to kill an archdemon, not to mention hordes of darkspawn. Any normal person would be worried.

“But if you insist on continuing to do so, I suggest you worry about what comes after. It is a bit more worthy of your attention.”

“After?” Alistair had given almost no thoughts to after. Since Ostagar, the Blight had become the whole focus of his life. Even as he laughed and joked, even as they traveled the length and breadth of Ferelden, the Archdemon was always there at the back of his mind. Well, not literally, at least not most of the time. (He hoped.) It had left little room for thoughts of a future that felt too vague to care much about.

“But of course!” Zevran nodded at him and smiled, his demeanor too cheerful to suit the topic of conversation. “If we lose tomorrow, we will merely be dead. But if we win, there is the whole rest of our lives to consider.”

Alistair groaned and leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands. The rest of his life? Right now, he wasn't sure he could get through _tonight_! 

“You see?”

“Just go away!”

“You say that, but I do not think you really mean it. If you hadn't wanted company, you would be lying awake in your own room rather than sitting out here in the main hall.”

Alistair shook his head and sighed again before he finally looked up, staring into the fire on the hearth in front of him as though it held all the answers. “It's funny,” he said, his voice distant and strange in his ears. “Here I am back home and I finally have a room of my own. I always wanted it, but now it doesn't feel right. Maybe I should have gone to sleep in the stables.”

Alistair wasn't looking at Zevran, but he could still hear the smirk in his voice. “While I do not doubt that would be a sight to see, I think we can come up with something better.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“You would perhaps rather be too tired tomorrow to react quickly enough to avoid dying horribly?”

Zevran said it lightly, but it was all too easy to imagine. Even a small delay in raising his shield could result in serious injury and it wasn't as though Alistair were some legendary warrior. He hadn't even been the best of the Templars he'd trained with. “What did you have in mind?”

“We could try to get you drunk. Despite recent events, I'm sure some rather fine vintages remain.” Zevran spoke slowly, as though he were imagining those vintages vividly and somehow enjoying their flavors without tasting a drop. “But while it would stop your worrying, it would not help with the morning.”

Alistair shuddered just imagining it. “No, no, that won't do. What else?” 

“Or you could join me in my room.”

At times like this, Alistair almost admired Zevran's one-track mind. It could be incredibly annoying, but at the same time, he couldn't imagine what it took to be able to think of anything beyond the fact that they'd be risking their lives only a few hours from now. “Don't you think of anything else?”

“You would rather I contemplate our deaths? No, do not answer that. But consider this: you found it difficult to sleep alone, did you not?”

Loath as Alistair was to admit it, Zevran might have a point. Being alone with his thoughts wasn't working out; he'd never been particularly good at the solitary religious meditation Templars were supposed to perform on these sorts of occasions. Perhaps some company _was_ in order. It wasn't as though he had to allow anything more intimate.

Which didn't mean he didn't expect Zevran to try, of course. Alistair got to his feet slowly, nervous enough about, well, almost everything that his movements felt forced and awkward. “I'm going to regret this.”

“Nonsense!” Zevran's all-too-apparent satisfaction with his decision only made Alistair feel more certain this was a bad idea. But that was no surprise: bad ideas were something he'd always excelled at. “I promise you: no one has ever regretted sharing my bed.”

Alistair wasn't so sure about that, but then again, he didn't really have any proof either way. “Here's hoping I won't be the first. I'd hate to ruin your perfect record.” He couldn't help glancing over his shoulder before he followed Zevran into his room; the last thing he wanted was any witnesses. But it was late and the halls were deserted.

“Sit there on the bed and remove your shirt.”

“What?”

“Trust me.”

Alistair almost pointed out that an assassin was the last person anyone should trust – probably especially the last person _he_ should trust – but he was surprised to find that he trusted him anyway. Somewhere along the line – he couldn't say quite when - he had ceased to question Zevran's motives and loyalty. That, however, would be even more awkward to say, so he settled for following Zevran's instructions.

He wasn't sure what to expect, but he told himself he was prepared for anything from an impromptu pillow fight to a striptease. But Zevran's hands on his shoulders, rubbing and squeezing and forcing aching muscles to relax, still took him by surprise. By the time he got past the initial shock, he already had to admit that Zevran was actually pretty good at this. Not that he'd had many massages to compare it with, but he already felt less tense.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Alistair was pretty sure it had to have been learned - you couldn't just start in rubbing someone's back and have it feel like this - though he regretted the question as soon as the words left his mouth. “... You used it to kill people, didn't you?” 

“A relaxed target is an easy target,” Zevran agreed. “You put the blade right about here,” he indicated the spot with a finger on Alistair's back, “and the job is done.”

It wasn't exactly a threat, but Alistair pulled away after that anyway, unable to stifle his reaction. His imagination was too vivid: he could almost feel the non-existent dagger in his back.

Zevran merely sighed theatrically and shook his head. “If I were going to kill you, I would hardly do it now. Tomorrow we fight darkspawn. You are the big target attracting their attention while I sneak up behind them. We are partners! It would be a shame if my distraction were dead before we even reach the city.” He grinned. Maybe he wasn't honestly looking forward to it, but it sure looked as though he were. “Besides, you are a Grey Warden and we are to kill an Archdemon. I have heard that sort of thing matters.”

“So it's only _after_ the battle that I have to watch my back.” It was a flat statement, not a question.

“Not at all! After that Landsmeet, you should watch your back at all times. It is only I who do not intend to kill you at present. And should you survive the battle, if you are still so worried about whom I might be hired to assassinate, you could always hire me first.” Zevran beamed at him as though there were nothing at all disturbing in his words. Perhaps for him, there wasn't, but even after all their travels, Alistair wasn't used to thinking that way.

Alistair hadn't moved any further away, but he still hesitated, sitting just a bit out of easy reach. He didn't really think Zevran would kill him; that wasn't it at all. (Zevran probably wasn't kidding about the part where he suggested Alistair should hire him, but that was something to worry about later.) At the moment, he just felt generally unsure about the whole situation. He didn't know what he should be doing or what was expected of him. Not that anything was new about that, but just because he was used to uncertainty didn't mean he enjoyed it.

“I see you will not make this easy. But I do not give up so easily either. Let us do this properly. Instead of sitting on the bed, lie down on your stomach.”

That, at least, was clear enough. He could have refused, but if he weren't going to play along, he might as well leave the room altogether. Somehow Alistair didn't want to do that (and it had nothing to do with having to put his shirt back on before he did). He obeyed after only a tiny hesitation. It was almost funny, really: his old Templar commanders had rarely gotten such ready obedience from him.

When Zevran resumed massaging his back, his hands were warmer than they had been and slick with something rather heavily scented. The oil felt good, but Alistair couldn't help sniffing a little suspiciously. “What's that smell?”

“You have perhaps heard that Antiva smells of fish? It is true, but not so bad, once you get used to it. Still, we find it pleasant to make sure other things do not smell of fish. Much like you Fereldens and the reek of dog, except you do not seem to mind it so much.”

He should probably be insulted, but it was also fairly accurate. Perfume wasn't unknown in Ferelden, of course, but it wasn't all that common either. It was usually regarded as foreign enough to be suspicious. The oil did nothing to contradict that assessment: Alistair couldn't name the scent, but it wasn't something he'd smelled before. Perhaps some fragrant wood or maybe even spices? From the scent alone, he could imagine places both far away and nothing at all like Redcliffe.

But while Zevran's explanation did not actually answer his question, he was getting used to the scent and chose not to press the point. It might be possible to poison someone this way, but he'd already decided he didn't really expect to be assassinated tonight.

Alistair closed his eyes and tried to relax. Lying here like this, it was surprisingly easy. He was on the verge of drifting off when Zevran tugged at the waist of his pants.

“Can I talk you out of these as well?”

Most other times, he would have blushed and protested – especially if they'd been in camp, with a built-in audience. Tent walls were thin: even small sounds were clearly audible and sometimes silhouettes could be seen of those inside. But the walls here were solid enough and Alistair was finally relaxed, so he just nodded and rolled onto his side to take them off.

He didn't mean to glance at Zevran, but he was surprised by his expression when he caught sight of it as he was dropping his pants over the side of the bed. The things Alistair didn't like about Zevran mostly had to do with dishonesty, or that's how Alistair would put it. Not everything he said was a lie (At least, that didn't seem very likely. Who could lie about everything?), but he lied so well, how could you ever be sure?

And then he made innuendo at nearly everyone with a pulse, so when he'd flirted with Alistair, he'd been flustered, but after awhile, he'd assumed that was the whole point. Zevran liked to make him uncomfortable. That wasn't new; plenty of people had found it funny in the past (and probably still would, given the chance). He didn't think Zevran was sincere about any of it. 

But with the way he was watching him: lingering looks like he was trying to touch him using the force of his stare alone, combined with a surprisingly vulnerable and almost wistful expression, the sort of thing Alistair was sure Zevran would only allow when he didn't expect anyone to be watching, suddenly he wasn't so certain. “Do you really...?” he asked, the words emerging from his mouth before he could stop them. And then, after probably the most awkward and vague question anyone had ever asked while in another man's bed in only his undergarments, he looked away, only to realize that since he was still mostly lying down, that meant he was basically staring right at Zevran's crotch. By the time he looked up again, he was bright red and wishing he knew a good way to disappear. 'Look over there, there's a darkspawn in the corner' was too obvious and he could hardly sneak away without his pants even if it did somehow work.

For once, Zevran did not take this opportunity to embarrass him further. Maybe he suspected that if he did, Alistair would leave and worry about explaining where his pants were later. Instead, he tilted his head a little and raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I desire you? I did not think it such a secret. I have defied the Crows, so I cannot say I am not a fool, but I am not quite so much a fool as that.”

Alistair didn't have the slightest idea what to say to that, but he also knew there were times when words weren't necessary. This seemed exactly that sort of time – like when a darkspawn was charging right at him, only less likely to end in one of them dead on the floor. He sat up, slid to the edge of the bed and reached for Zevran, who obligingly stepped closer, then pulled him closer still and kissed him.

He had admittedly not thought much beyond that. But it seemed he didn't have to think, or at least not much. Kissing Zevran seemed to come naturally, or maybe it was just that at least one of them knew what he was doing. Somehow Alistair found himself lying down again, this time on his back and with Zevran on top of him, without quite knowing how it had happened.

He'd always thought that when the time came, he'd know what to do. It wasn't like he was completely ignorant; Alistair had never had anyone teach him about sex, but he was neither blind nor deaf. He'd figured it out. But he hadn't appreciated how hard it would be to think in the moment. “I've never...” he finally managed at say, a little breathlessly.

Zevran paused and smirked down at him. The room was dim: the only light came from the fireplace along the far wall, and his face was shadowed, but his expression was still clear. “That was no secret either. Conversations, my dear Alistair, are not so private as you may have believed.”

That wasn't reassuring at all, but before he could point that out, Zevran took his earlobe in his mouth and sucked, grazing lightly with his teeth, and the word turned into a moan. Alistair had never thought of ears as particularly sexy before, but after this, he thought he would see them in a whole new light. Zevran knew just the right place to suck to send a tingle down his spine and turn his brain to mush.

From ears, he moved onto the neck, then to the shoulders that had been so tense not long before. They were tensing up now, too, but that had more to do with arousal than worry. Alistair felt overwhelmed – _Maker, he'd never thought his body was this sensitive_ – but he didn't want to stop. And Zevran showed no signs of doing so; he continued his path down Alistair's body, licking and sucking a slow, meandering trail on his skin.

He spent extra time with Alistair's nipples, flicking one with his tongue several times before taking it into his mouth. Zevran bit a little harder than he had been, too, but stopped when Alistair squirmed a bit uncomfortably. From there, he demonstrated that the ticklish spot on Alistair's ribs was sensitive to more than just tickling, then kissed his way along one hipbone.

By then, Alistair was breathing shallowly and once he caught himself making a noise that was closer to a frustrated whine than a moan of pleasure. Zevran looked up then and smiled slowly, an expression of such complete satisfaction that, knowing Zevran as he did, Alistair felt a vague sense of alarm. “Not so hesitant now, I see.” He traced circles on Alistair's abdomen, head still tilted up to watch his reaction. “It seems a shame to rush, but I suppose we do not truly have all night – this time.”

Zevran took Alistair's cock in his hand and flicked the tip with his tongue. Any thoughts Alistair had about questioning his previous statement flew out of his head immediately. He knew, in a general way, that people did this in bed (and, from some things he'd glimpsed in the past, just about anywhere they thought they might go undiscovered), but he'd never really thought much about how it felt. Even if he had, his imagination probably wouldn't have captured it; he never expected a mouth to feel so different from a hand: hot and wet and just the right amount of suction. Alistair distantly heard a desperate-sounding whimper and was almost surprised to realized it had come from him.

He didn't last long, but then, he wasn't sure he was expected to. Zevran didn't make fun of him or complain, so he assumed it was all right. Of course, he could merely be waiting for an audience, but for once, Alistair didn't think that was the case.

Zevran slid off him, then lay next to Alistair, head propped on one hand while the other rested on Alistair's stomach in an almost proprietary fashion. He still looked extremely pleased with himself, though Alistair had to admit it might be justifed.

“Well? What is the verdict?” he asked. “Do you regret joining me, as you expected?”

“Oh,” Alistair replied unhelpfully. It hadn't been that long ago and yet he'd almost forgotten saying that. “Do you always ask questions when you already know the answer?”

Zevran just laughed. “Those are the best kind. Though unexpected answers can be rather exciting, there is little quite so gratifying as making others admit they were wrong.”

“I guess I deserve that.”

Alistair wasn't sure how much time remained until dawn, but it was little enough that he could probably have gotten away with simply going to sleep. It was tempting – now that he was finally truly relaxed, his eyelids were heavy. But he couldn't escape the feeling that it would be both selfish and ungrateful. Whatever Zevran wanted from him, he was sure it was more than this. And in a way, he owed him: he hadn't had to stop when he'd seen Alistair brooding in the hall. He could have walked on by and Alistair would never have known he was there.

Or maybe all that was just so much justification for something he wanted to do anyway.

Kissing had been easy, so he started there. Zevran was close enough that simply rolling onto his side meant that their lips were already almost touching. Alistair took his time with it, getting used to the feel of their bodies pressed together – a sensation that quickly made one thing clear.

Alistair inched backwards and asked the obvious question. “Why are you still dressed?”

“I thought you'd never ask.” Zevran, of course, could not simply remove his clothes in the careless manner Alistair had. He removed them slowly, teasingly, with movements too graceful to be simply improvised. Alistair wasn't quite sure if he should be impressed or embarrassed. He wasn't used to anyone putting on a show and especially not one intended for him. It mostly made him feel vaguely awkward.

Zevran must have been able to tell, because he finished much more quickly than he'd begun and climbed back in bed without fishing for compliments. “Ah, well. It is not for everyone.”

It was easier for Alistair to look at him like this, when Zevran was being what he supposed must be himself or something close to it rather than putting on a performance. The man who'd stripped as though he did it professionally just made him feel uncomfortable, whereas the one lying beside him now felt approachable. Touchable, even, though he was still a bit hesitant even as he started to do so. 'No touching' had kind of been a theme of Alistair's life and the habits born of a lifetime mostly devoid of physical affection weren't so easily abandoned. Slowly, experimentally, he slid his fingers over Zevran's skin, tracing tattoos and scars curiously. It was almost like getting to know him, only using touch instead of his other senses.

Had Zevran been someone else, someone sheltered and soft, he'd have felt compelled to apologize for the roughness of his hands. But while part of him didn't quite consider an assassin to be a real fighter (an assessment he suspected Zevran might even agree with), the hands that had touched him so recently had been nearly as battered and callused as his own. 

Alistair still kept his touches light, watching Zevran's reactions as his hands continued to move. Without experience, he had only those reactions to guide him, but he was observant enough (or maybe Zevran was deliberately obvious enough) that he thought he wasn't doing so badly. But it still took him time to work up the nerve to touch Zevran's cock – his fingers circled closer and then away several times before he actually did it. It wasn't that he found it disgusting or didn't want to, merely that he didn't want to mess it up. It couldn't really just be like touching himself, could it? He knew people talked about that kind of thing – Zevran, in particular, talked about that kind of thing – and just imagining the possible conversation made him vow to keep his distance from any sort of sexual discussion for at least a few weeks. Assuming they lived that long, of course. 

By the time he stroked the head with a first tentative finger, Zevran's face was flushed and his breathing faster. He hadn't spoken since his abortive striptease, but when Alistair continued the same sort of gentle, experimental touches here as well, he finally did, his voice slightly higher and rougher than usual. “I am not usually one to complain about teasing, but unless you have given up on the idea of sleep altogether, perhaps you might consider something a little more to the point?”

“Oh, right.” Alistair took a deep breath, then did his best to copy what Zevran had done for him. He quickly discovered that it was not as easy as it looked. He wasn't sure where to rest his weight and it took a few tries before he realized he was holding his breath and figured out how to breathe. In the end, he suspected he'd used his hand at least as much as his mouth, but from the way Zevran gripped the sheets and the steady stream of Antivan he moaned as he came, it must have been good enough.

After, Alistair was exhausted. A little turned on again, too, but tired enough that it was easily ignored. Zevran, on the other hand, was back to looking smug. If he were equally tired, it didn't show.

“Next time, we shall take our time about it.” It sounded almost like a promise, albeit a strange one.

“Next time?”

“You weren't truly planning on dying tomorrow, were you? Therefore, I am sure there shall be a next time.”

“And here I was planning on fighting without my sword, just to make it easier for them.” If his eyes had been open, Alistair would have rolled them. Of course he didn't want to die! That was exactly why he'd been nervous in the first place.

Still, he found himself smiling. It was nice to hear that someone would still want him even after the Archdemon was dead. Zevran's words, or at least their implications, soothed a worry he hadn't even realized he'd had.

It was only as he slipped into sleep that he realized it might be awkward to be found in Zevran's bed in the morning.


End file.
